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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25797787">lowest level</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auredosa/pseuds/Auredosa'>Auredosa</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hitman (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abuse, Blood and Torture, Gen, Hostage Situations, Revenge</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:56:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>394</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25797787</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auredosa/pseuds/Auredosa</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Lucas is no better than his own oppressors. Arthur should’ve kept his mouth shut.</p>
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<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

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<a name="section0001"><h2>lowest level</h2></a>
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    <p>“Fuck, it-it hurts,” Arthur whispered, eyes pinching beneath his own tie wrapped around his head. The knife pushed a hair deeper into his side, leaving a burning line running from his hip to his breast. Lucas swept his calloused thumb over the spider web being etched into his hostage’s skin.</p><p>“So did being Providence’s slave for the better part of twenty years.” Lucas spat, breathing down his neck. For a terrible moment, Arthur feared he’d take the blade and stab it into his chest, just get it over with. He knew how his anger boiled over, when he’d been beat black and blue after Lucas first got his hands on him. That was nothing compared to this. Arthur would gladly trade this cold basement storeroom for the warm, humid hull of the ship. Sometimes, he still felt like he was on the boat, guts turning over themselves, body rocking back and forth in his chair. Always felt sick to his stomach, and there was never enough air to breathe.</p><p>“Abusing me, toying with me, cutting me up like I’m a paper doll,” he managed to say.  “You’ve sunken to the lowest level with the devil himself.”</p><p>The last shred of rationality in his brain immediately regrets his words when Lucas snarls and digs the knife too deep for him to figure out, dragging it across his ribcage in one, wrathful swipe. The blade flies across the boiler room and it falls with a metallic clang. Arthur screams in agonizing pain as blood starts to run down his stomach and pool in his lap. Tears stain the tie wrapped around his head. He grips the wooden armrests of his chair for dear life. He fucked up, he said the wrong thing, there’s so much red, he’s going to die, he’s going to <em>die-</em></p><p>Above him, Lucas’s breaths come out in short huffs until finally they come slowly enough that the cold air of the room returns to sting Arthur’s new wound like frostbite. His captor sighs heavily, and Arthur feels like he’s going to pass out.</p><p>“Then he has himself no worse power over <em>me</em>.”</p><p>Without another word, Lucas wipes his fingers over his mouth and slams the door behind him. The sound of his footsteps up the stairs fade away until the heavy thuds are replaced by soft pelts dripping on the concrete floor.</p><p> </p>
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